SURVIVOR SERIES
by Boomshakalakka
Summary: Surviving is a test, and only the strongest will survive. A plane crash into the Atlantic will force a dysfunctional group of individuals to work together to make it home, but that's just one hurdle they will face together.
1. Chapter 1

Welly, well, well. Folks, I have here, a story I told myself I wasn't ever going to write. For reason number one, that these are real people, and that my writing stories about them is kinda weird. I had to explain to myself that they are ALSO characters. CM Punk isn't a real person. Phil Brooks is, but CM PUNK, is not. Punk is a character. And therefore this isn't creepy.

Also, just to make sure my friends don't find this, I'm writing this under a different alias here on . This is our secret, shhhhhh. Also, mistakes may be present, pretend they are hugs for you personally. - Boom

* * *

**SURVIVOR SERIES**

**By: Boomshakalakka**

The turbulence was the worst he had ever been through, and that was saying something. He felt the tickle in his stomach as the airliner dropped hundreds of feet before making the climb back up to its original cruising altitude.

"Mercy, who booked this flight?" A rather snooty voice from behind him had Punk craning his head over the seat to catch a glimpse of an ashen faced Damien Sandow, who was trying to become one with his seat, about hurl as the plane dipped and rattled around once more.

There was a snort from across the aisle as Dolph Ziggler adjusted the Sky Mall magazine he was idly flipping through, "I believe that this was your doing, Sandy pants."

Punk slowly cocked a brow at the name 'Sandy pants' as the plane bobbed up and down. Dolph was known to give out the oddball nicknames. Punk himself had a rather impressive collection of them, courtesy of the noodle haired wrestler, but Sandow habitually took offense to anything that even hinted at 'childishness' on the part of the flamboyant showman.

"It was a rhetorical statement, and had you and that uninspiring associate of yours, Ryder, not piddled away your morning screwing around, we could have promptly been on the first flight back with the others!" Sandow accused the bleach blonde wrestler in his trademark patient, yet overly condescending, tone of voice.

"Hey! We were not 'piddling' or 'screwing around'. We were sightseeing."

"Indeed. If you plea rubbernecking the female receptionist at the Subway, 'sightseeing'."

"Ladies! Ladies, please!" Daniel Bryan, who had been trying, and failing to sleep a few rows up, barked back at them. "This flight is difficult enough without you two continuously bickering."

Ryder, who had been…not in his seat, finally flumped down next to Punk and buckled in, "Now, now, Danny my man. It's just politics. We'll keep it down anyhow."

Daniel's beard twitched as his deadpanned gaze never wavered from the spikey haired goofball, "Thanks…"

Ryder just shook his head. "Cranky, I tell ya'." He said softly to Punk, who flashed his seatmate a halfhearted grin as his stomach, once again, was left in the dust several dozen feet above.

"Where were you?" He asked, slowly digging his fingers into his armrest.

"Bathroom, man. I had blood sausages and they are murder on the stomach."

Despite how terrible the flight was going, the innate fear of falling thousands of feet out of the air and dying, and a certain severe distaste for storms- especially the one they were traveling through at that very moment, CM Punk was able to overlook all of this to give the sunglasses wearing wrestler a freaked out look. "Seriously, I don't know what to say to that aside from see a doctor A.S.A.P."

Ryder seemed confused. "What?"

"And for the record, ew."

"Wait, what?"

A long sigh that spoke of intense suffering came from behind them. "Blood sausages are considered a staple in Irish cuisine..." Sandow muttered.

Punk wanted to gag. "What the fuck are we talking about?"

"Sausages man," Ryder seemed to have caught up, "They are like, fat super brats or something. I ate them for breakfast, and hot damn, are they giving me the lava turds."

What the hell was wrong with this group? "You better have cracked a window, man. I don't want to smell that." What was he supposed to say?

"Why couldn't I have made the first flight? Why must I be punished so?" Sandow pondered morosely out loud as the little light that signaled everyone to buckle-up pinged overhead.

"They're just now letting us know this is a seat belt situation?" Daniel's incredulous disembodied voice rose up from in front of them.

Lightening flashed wickedly bright outside his window, making him flinch. The plane dipped roughly again, and he gripped desperately at the armrest. "Shiiiiiit." He gulped thickly, wishing he, like Sandow, was on the first flight with the majority of the wrestlers that had traveled all the way to Europe, England, and Ireland for the RAW World Tour. He had made this flight a few times before, at least twice a year for the last six, but never had the Atlantic crossing been this bad.

And they were only hour five into the seven hour flight.

Despite Zack and Dolph's objections about not making their group late for their scheduled flight- they definitely didn't contribute to a united front arriving on time. No, it was just one of those mornings that everyone was predictably running late, what with the Dynamic Dumbasses screwing around, and the traffic being crazy to Dublin International, it was a wonder they even made it to the airport at all. Daniel had driven their rented van, because aside from Sheamus, Finlay, Wade Barret, and one or two other South African guys scattered amongst the wrestlers, Daniel was the only one in their group that could navigate the abnormal driving conditions without much trouble. Sandow refused to drive anywhere, and it was just a bad idea to ask either Zack or Dolph.

Period.

Personally, he could have driven, but most of the guys were backseat drivers and that annoyed the absolute crap out of him, so he couldn't be bothered on these international tours.

The thing was, the larger group that included a lot of the top people- Cena, Orton, Big Show, Sheamus, all the Diva's except Kaitlyn, The Miz, and so on, had made the original flight booked earlier that morning. Punk's group consisted of the all the late arrivals that had discovered their ride home had left almost fifteen minutes prior, forcing them to wait for the next flight out. So here he was in the middle of this nightmare of a journey with all the…screwballs of the WWE, it seemed, packed into the eight o'clock overnight trip.

There were only a few of them left at the airport when Bethany, (at least that's what he thought her name was) one of the newer WWE coordinators, had taken down their names and together with Damien, made the arrangements to get everyone home. Dolph Ziggler and Zack Ryder, Damien Sandow, Daniel Bryan, and poor Kaitlyn, who he had seen sleeping fitfully next to a rather pale Cody Rhodes, further up the line of seats, were all the wrestlers that were flying this trip. There were, of course, one or two talent managers, and Bethany, that had resignedly stayed behind to make sure the last of the 'talent' made it into the air, but that was it.

It would have been fantastic being so light on the chaos that the WWE tended to trail everywhere had Mother Nature not decided to play ping pong with their flight.

The fasten seat-belt sign pinged again, and Punk grit his teeth as the plane hit another particularly brutal patch of turbulence. "I hate this." Ryder whined beside him as he slunk down further in his seat, desperately trying to grasp hold of something secure and solid that wasn't in a metal tube thirty thousand feet up.

Punk couldn't agree more. "I don't think I've ever had to deal with a flight this bad."

Sandow sighed tiredly. "Nor can I."

"Where's the stewardess with the booze cart? I need a something strong enough to knock a horse over." Dolph leaned out into the aisle, looking to see if he could track down one of the flight attendants.

"I do consent to the notion that a little libation might quell the nerves enough to recuperate for our next show." Sandow agreed as only he could, which made both Dolph and Zack exchange exasperated looks.

"You could just say 'I need a beer', Sandy." Zack suggested as he turned in his seat to look at the dark haired wrestler behind him. "Seriously, we won't judge."

"How…acquiescent of you." The overly educated member of their group returned tiredly. "And for the record, I prefer at least a twelve year Scotch, or a twenty year whiskey…nothing less."

"Hope simple Jack number seven will do." Dolph chirped as he unbuckled his seat belt and started to stand. "I'm gonna go find us some fire water."

"Dolph! Please, would you sit down?" A harassed sounding voice called up the aisle to them. "It's unwise to go anywhere in this turbulence."

Speak of the devil, the plane shuttered and bobbed so hard, he thought he heard it groan. His hands were starting to cramp from the death grip he had on the armrests. Dolph grasped tightly to the seat in front of him as he rode out the commotion before turning to address whoever had taken the time to corral the bleach blonde.

"Aw, Lizzie B, we need something to help calm our nerves. And since CM Punkerella is such a goody two-shoes, we can't indulge in Nightquil without his disapproving stare busting our balls."

He did not. "I do not stare, you goon. Do whatever the hell lights your fancy." He snipped, irritated.

"See! He's already on us." Dolph gestured to his tattooed friend. "I just want a drink. I can't take much more of this bouncing."

"Well sit down, and I'll go get you your drink. Corporate would hang me if you were injured during transportation." This so called Lizzie B said as she stopped and braced herself against the low ceiling and the top of Zack's seat.

"You make is sound like we're cows heading to market." Zack spoke up.

"More like pigs." Sandow's low voice interjected, and despite how awful things were going, Punk snorted in amusement.

The coordinator sighed loudly. "If I go get your drinks, will you sit back down?" She demanded.

He agreed, and Lizzie B waited pointedly until Dolph was reseated and strapped down until asking what it was he wanted to drink.

She took everyone's order as she steadied herself as best she could against the plane's seats and overhead. Poor fool.

"Would you like a soda or anything, Phillip?" She asked politely of him, and he finally turned to look at her. It was unusual that anyone in this troupe would use his given name. Normally, wrestlers just called each other by their stage names, and for Punk, that was just fine with him. Only family, or childhood friends referred to them by birth titles, because how lame was it when one's grandmother called corporate offices and asked for her 'Punkypie'?

He was still praying three years later that no one outside the amused receptionist knew of this nick-name.

Lizzie B was much younger than he would have expected, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five, shoulder length copper hair, and glasses that framed bright eyes. "Pepsi if they have it. Ginger Ale if they don't, thanks."

She nodded her head, before turning back to Dolph. "Now stay put, please." With that, she moved carefully up the aisle, ignoring the odd looks she was getting from the few scattered passengers flying along with them, and stopping only to take the orders of Daniel, Cody, and Kaitlyn on her way past.

"That poor girl deserves a plaque." Sandow observed as they all watched their coordinator stumble stiffly as another rough patch hit their flight.

Punk just closed his eyes, silently pleading that the storm would pass soon enough. A loud chime sounded above them as the captain's voice filled the cabin. _"We are experiencing some mechanical difficulty, please, return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. Again, please, return to your seats, and fasten your seatbelts."_

His announcement was followed by a bloated silence that seemed to last way longer then the three seconds it technically was, before a concerned hum rose up from the passengers.

Zack especially seemed worried. "What sort of mechanical difficulty? Why didn't he explain further?"

"Hopefully it's just the air-conditioning." Dolph rejoined optimistically. "And not anything critical."

"Why would he even open his mouth if it were simply the air-conditioner?" Sandow snapped almost hysterically…for him.

Between the cracks in the seats, Punk could see Daniel's face flash apprehensively back at him. "This flight just gets shittier and shittier." He said rigidly, feeling his heart rate increase as the plane experienced more turmoil at the hands of the storm raging just outside.

Their poor coordinator practically materialized before them with an arm load of drinks and cups. "Here," She rushed. "Dolph's three Vodkas, Zack's tequila, Sandow's scotch or bourbon, Daniels juice, and your Pepsi." She practically tossed several tiny bottles at them before holding up a small stack of clear Dixie like cups. "Your cups. Now sit and be safe until we clear this." With that, she blitzed past them back to her own seat.

"A raise might be fitting as well." the seat behind him opined, blandly.

Zack popped the top on his tequila shots and threw them back, one at a time in rapid succession while Dolph was doing much the same across the aisle. Punk looked at his own mini can of Pepsi, but his stomach felt too queasy to even think about drinking anything. The thought of dying had that affect.

Sometimes he resented his straight edge life style, because he could have gone for something to repress the nerves enough so he didn't stroke out before they ever reached Atlanta International.

The seat belt light chirped once again, but it was almost completely drowned out from the rattling and thumping of shifting luggage in the overhead compartments.

This was alarming.

It was a shame this moment was wasted on Zack, who was busy high fiving a rapidly slipping Dolph.

"Best in the World, bro! Woo WOO woooo!" The dirty blonde chanted obnoxiously.

"You KNOW it!" Dolph answered, before the two broke out into hysterics. "Right Sunny Sandypatty?!"

Ah, to be simple in a complex world. Punk could admire it from affair, since it looked so pleasant compared to the reality that was shaking apart around him.

"Sweet, merciful, Jesus! If their intellect plummeted any further, we'd have to water them weekly to ensure survival." Sandow exploded as the two in question started singing a pathetic rendition to John Cena's entrance music, a favorite of theirs while intoxicated.

He was in Hell. He had to be.

At that moment, the plane shifted, dipping dangerously to the right. It was so sudden, that his head connected with the lip of the small window. Rubbing angrily at his temple while he used his other hand to brace himself against the seat in front of him, and fought the irrational rage that came when he hurt himself.

Punk wished adamantly that he was on the ground. Preferably home in Chicago where his biggest worry was being taken out by a taxi driver or bus.

The intercom binged, and the captain's voice once again filled the cabin.

"_We are going to attempt an emergency landing, I repeat, an emergency landing. Please brace yourselves for impact."_

"Holy fuck, _where?!_ We're currently over the flippin' Atlantic Ocean!" Someone up a few rows and over in the center seats yelled immediately following the captain's announcement.

Punk felt the blood drain from his face while his breathing escalated.

They were going to crash!

Zack and Dolph seemed to have gracefully accepted their fate- granted they were off with the fairies- and had proceeded with their singing, waving their arms about their head's like they were swatting slow moving flies.

The rest of the planes populace had a very different reaction, however.

Someone hit the back of his seat. Somewhere another poor soul was sobbing, pleading that they make it home to their children.

Punk felt like he was trying to suck air through a straw, he couldn't quite focus on what was happening.

He was wasting his last moments.

"Damnit Dolph! Bend over your knees and cover your head!" He heard Sandow bellow like a bull.

Whoever was directly behind him hit his seat again, and the noise level in the cabin greatly increased to a cacophonous roar of voices- reassuring, begging, crying, consoling. Lighting was flashing intermittently with increasing frequency in his window, temporarily whiting everyone out in the cabin.

It was without a doubt the most terrifying thing he had ever experienced.

People were going to die.

He was going to die…his friends were going to die.

The plane was shaking so badly now, and the feeling of having left his insides high above his head let him know they were dropping fast. If he focused on it, he could actually feel the speed at which the aircraft was traveling.

He bent over, fighting the force that was smashing him to his seatback, and hugged his knees hard.

This sucked so bad. Survival was rarely expected in crashes involving jet liners. He would never get to speak to his family again, tell his sister he loved her again…

His grandma would be heartbroken...

From the corner of his eye, he saw Zack's black converse shoes. Turning his head, he could see a blank look in the normally animated goofball's face as he just sat in his seat as if he were at the movies. He must have been on overload.

"Zack, get down!" Punk snapped, as he reached for the dirty blonde and all but head slammed him down on his knees. "Cover your head, and hold on!"

"Are we going to die?" Zack asked in a small, childlike voice as he obediently followed his older friend's orders.

Punk knew they were running out of time and that they only had seconds left.

He couldn't waste them. "I don't know, man." He said back quietly as the roaring from the engines and the screaming of the people around them all but swallowed his words.

Zack must have understood, and he looked sad. "Oh…"

"_Brace for impact!"_ The captain's voice thundered around the cabin, and Punk squeezed his eyes shut, and prayed that this was a nightmare, and that he would wake up on one of the hard plastic trunks the WWE stage crew used to transport all the equipment and ring gear which the wrestlers also sometimes used to catch a quick impromptu nap. He regretted that they had not made the original flight with the other guys.

He wished they weren't going to die.

Zack whimpered and Punk answered back by pressing his side into his friend's ribs.

The feel of Zack pushing back was the last tangible thing he knew, as the world exploded on impact.

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**-Ho snip snip snap- Booshakalakka**


	2. Chapter 2

Metal shrieked and growled as the airliner was ripped apart upon impact. The front half of the craft was gone, and water was rapidly filling the void left behind in a white foamy boil that was liberally seasoned with people and debris.

Punk struggled to suck air back into his aching lungs, after having the breath knocked right out of him from smashing head and neck first, like an accordion, into the seat in front of him, he felt the world tilt once more as the quickly sinking plane dunked and whirled in the rough seas. His hands slipped on the seat belt fastener at his waist as he fought to break free. If he didn't unfasten his safety restraints, he'd drown for sure. There was a hollow groan and rumble as another breaker hit his side of the fuselage, and right before his eyes, the too thin metal wall crumpled inward and cold, salty water smashed what precious little air he had managed to obtain, complete from his lungs once again.

Panic blazed hot in his mind, as his fingers fumbled with his seat belt. His feet slammed repeatedly into the floor and seat before him, bucking wildly to untangle himself. The latch gave way under his constant barrage of attack, and he was dealt a whole new roster of problems as the remaining chunk of the fuselage rolled over and over in the storm. Lighting would briefly light the destroyed interior, and every chance for a breath he got, he took. The roaring and churning of sea and storm muffled almost all sound aside from the bleating screams of trapped people that pierced the air every time he snatched a breath.

Someone banged into him, and Punk tumbled and was sucked down what was once the overhead toward the swirling mass of dark, thundering spray. Random bits of luggage and metal hit and scratched at him as he helpless swept past. Sometimes he'd even feel the fleeting warmth of fingers brush his arms or chin.

He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and couldn't see.

He was scared.

It was too dark, but there was too much stimulation. Sound was only a muffled drone that filled his ears as he felt the world going to Hell around him. As he twirled deeper and deeper into the abyss, he could only live in those terrible moments.

Then the feel of the currents around him changed, and he still rolled limply in the palm of the sea, yet he wasn't paralyzed by its shear ferocity anymore.

He could move, he could kick.

Opening his stinging eyes, courtesy of the salt water, up was easy enough to determine as one of the engines had caught fire on the water's surface way above his head. Frightened at how deep he really was, out of breath, beaten and bruised, in that moment, he decided he wasn't down and out for the count. Kicking violently, he used his arms to almost claw his way to the roiling surface. Closing his eyes, he felt his elbows and leg clip debris as he pumped his way upward. Breaking into the whipping winds was almost a relief as he coughed and gulped the brine scented air down. The shearing pain of his lungs easing as he filled them with much needed air, the desire to live was enough incentive to keep his head well above water for as long as possible, but he could also feeling himself starting to fatigue under the total onslaught the ocean was throwing at him.

Plus, Punk was a weak swimmer at best. Most wrestlers were; too much muscle to fat ratio meant men like Batista, the Rock, and Cena would sink like stones in comparison to an average man thrust into the water.

Punk had witnessed it, and he knew first hand that he would tire not too long after hitting the water, as demonstrated when they had done a show in Hawaii and most of the guys had spent the day at the private beach behind one of the super luxurious hotels the WWE had connections with- a perk for living your life out of a suitcase for two hundred and fifty days of the year.

Cena demonstrated how he couldn't float- something none of them had anticipated being a problem.

They had been in calm, knee deep water then.

Punk was now bobbing like a cork over a fathomless depth, next to a swiftly sinking plane and oil slicks feeding ribbons of fire.

If he didn't find something to hang onto, he would eventually slip beneath the waves like the airliner just did.

Lighting belted across the skies as thunder boomed so loud he cowered low in the water on instinct. The rain came down in sheets, adding an extra weight to his shoulders and head as he dog paddled toward the burning oil slicks.

He heard a call for help every now and then, and sometimes sobbing, but he could barely help himself let alone another panicking person.

He watched as the tail of the craft, illuminated darkly against the flashes of lightening high above, roll to the side like a massive frozen whale fluke, and Punk shuddered in the chilly water. He needed to find a hunk of foam insulation, some luggage, a seat cushion- because he knew from long flying experience and hearing the flight attendant spiel a million times that those fuckers floated so they had better be floating everywhere damn it- or a portion of the plane.

He kept bumping into things, but every time he tried to grab hold, they sank under his hand, or turned out to be random small bits of debris, like the lunch tray he just cracked his knuckled painfully into.

His hand landed on something soft, covered in fabric, and Punk was chucked bodily by the choppy waves into the first fatality that he had ever seen up close. Another flash of light, and he came face to face with a person. It was only a second, but the wide unseeing eyes of the man before him recorded a fate that many had experienced on this flight.

Jerking, he splashed frantically backwards, trying desperately to put space between him, and the dead that could no longer be helped.

This was the ultimate nightmare.

There had been children on that flight.

He was losing control of his tightly wound emotions. The panic that he had been able to haphazardly table came flooding back.

He was going to die!

He couldn't survive this disaster in the freaking middle of a storm while looking blindly for a floatie!

In his terror to flee the reality of death, his wind milling arm came down hard on chunk of something else. Freaked beyond reason, Punk thrashed around until another helpful flash of lightening illuminated what he could assume was a section of wing, being tossed about in the high seas.

He flung himself forward, latching onto the last strand of survival he saw in this horror show. The metal was warm, even scalding in some places from where either the engine or the friction of the crash had super-heated the metal. It was a fading gift that he soaked up in the chilled waters of the Atlantic.

Pulling himself up onto the tossing and heaving wing section, Punk managed to find both a hand and foot hold. Locking down, he held on for all his worth as the Atlantic raged around him in the dark. Exhausted, he clung desperately to his little raft, praying he had the strength to ride out the storm.

On and on, second by agonizing second, Punk lived in only the moment. There was no time out there, no concept of sanity.

He had no idea where he was, or if he'd ever see another person alive ever again. His only anchor to life was the bit of metal flesh of a downed airliner that he held tight to throughout the night. It was the last shred of life he had.

* * *

Someone was patting his cheek. It was the first thought that had entered his mind in what seemed a very long time. At least he thought it was someone…

Maybe he had fallen asleep at the airport again waiting for whoever the hell he was traveling with to get their hundreds of bags together so they could go. It was fairly common, but normally he didn't drop off so soundly…in fact he never had. Normally he couldn't sleep at all. Anywhere, at anytime.

"Hey."

So it was a person, a kid by the sound of it. Well that wasn't new at all either, and actually that made him feel better too. Kids wouldn't do creepy stuff to an unconscious person.

Fingers traced his beard, mustache, and then tugged on his lip ring.

"Whatthefuck!" He jerked awake, scaring the small girl sitting by his head so she toppled out of sight.

It was daylight, but the clouds kept the warming sun away. Disoriented, he lifted his head, and noticed he was belly down on a sandy beach and his feet were continuously being soaked by the surf. He was also missing a shoe.

"Well you're not dead."

He turned his head, and hissed as pain lit up his neck, back, and arms. He slapped a sand caked hand to his neck to try and ease the throbbing as he peered blearily between wet, beach soaked strands of hair at a pair of wide eyes. "Wh-what?" He croaked.

"You aren't dead." She repeated meaningfully, as if this were a surprise to him.

It kind of was. He cleared his throat. "Where am I?"

She sat back on her heels, and he noticed that she had a large bruise covering the side of her bare shoulder that dipped under the wide strap of her yellow sundress, which was torn around the hem, coated in sand, and wrinkled. Her long brown hair was wild and framed her cherubic in such a way that made him think her hairstyle was relatively normal for her. "Betsy says were on an island."

Betsy? "An island?"

She nodded emphatically. "Yup, just like Cap'n Jack Sparrow."

Punk felt like he was missing several large pieces to an extremely important puzzle. "What?"

"You okay?" She chirped as he slowly let his head drop back into the damp sand under his cheek.

"'M alright." He mumbled, too shocked to really say anything else. The sound of crashing waves was soothing in their rhythm, but reality was encroaching on his moment of solitude. They were on an island somewhere, in a situation similar to one a Disney pirate faced…

Seemed logical in its overly simplified way.

"You gotta a lot of drawin's." Her innocent voice interrupted his thoughts. "Did you draw them?"

Drawings? When he lifted his head to look at her, she blinked back at him. "What now?"

"Your drawings." She pointed a little finger at his arm closest to her. "Did you make them?"

Oh, his tattoos. "No, I didn't."

She seemed impressed. "You let someone else make them? Wow, momma is always telling me not to draw on things or people. She says it looks sloppy."

He groaned in response as the little chatterbox continued on her spiel. His head hurt, his back ached, and felt like he had ridden a ride through a washing machine.

"…and Betsy is going to be so happy that I found you alive." The little girl said loudly, again derailing his mental inventory so completely he just had to respond.

"What?" He asked, focusing all his scattered attention on her.

She seemed confused. "What, what?"

Man, he was not into this kid stuff today. "What was that last bit you just said?"

"I said what."

He wanted to bang his head hard into something out of frustration. However, judging by how tender his right temple was, he must have already accomplished that. "No, before that, that part about Betty."

A light must have blinked on in her little mind. "Oh, you mean Betsy. I said she'll be happy I found you."

It was like their circling conversation was going nowhere fast. "That's fantastic, kid." He strained to push up onto his knees, something that should have been laughable easy, but today, it was like he had Mark Henry on his back, which was saying something fierce.

She pushed up to her feet, and when Punk looked up again to catch his breath, he came face to face with her again. "If you get up, we can go back to Donnie."

He didn't bother to ask who Donnie was, as he got one foot slowly underneath him and struggled to stand. It felt like he was a hundred years old.

"Wow, you're really tall." She seemed impressed with this.

"And you're really short." He rejoined back as he swayed tiredly on his feet.

She wrinkled her nose. "Tha's cause Imma kid."

"You don't say."

Bobbing her head, she seemed excited. "Yes, sir! I'm five and a half!"

He blinked and looked down at her again. She was really tiny for a five year old.

"Kinda little for five and a half." He said pointedly as he gently touched his aching side. He must have broken a rib or two. He knew this pain intimately.

She shook her head. "Tha's not what's important here."

That got his attention. "Oh? Then what is?"

"I'm five and a half!" She stated emphatically, which made him laugh despite how tired and in pain he was.

Something caught her attention, as her head turned to look behind her. Punk lifted his gaze to where she was staring and saw a stooped figure leaning heavily on a palm tree. "Who is that?" He asked, hoping it was someone who could help.

"Tha's Donnie. Betsy told me to wait with him. I hope he isn't mad." She turned and started to trot back up the beach, only slowing when she had to climb over a sharp pile of coral. She only made it maybe ten feet before she turned to look back at him. "Come on! Betsy said we have to stick together."

He really couldn't argue with her, and as he let his eyes travel over the beach, he took note of the moody clouds that stretched out over the horizon. Dropping his eyes to strip of almost white sand that arched off into both distances following the curve of the island, Punk took solemn note of the remains of their flight. Luggage and suitcases spotted the relatively pristine surf as well as food trays, twisted chunks of metal dragging bits of insulation, what looked to be a tire of the plane, and clothing articles were all that were left. It was a stark reminder of the crash, and as he turned to hobble after the little brunette chatterbox over to this Donnie person, Punk let his mind finally turn to the huge elephant in the room.

What had become of his friends and fellow wrestlers?

Had they survived? Were they here somewhere too?

He hoped so. He really hoped so.

"Heeey! Come one!" His little chatterbox called back to him, and he stepped up his game, categorizing all his aches and pains as he went. Determining if they were serious or not. One of the repercussions about being a wrestler were the injuries one sustained: pulled or torn muscles, dislocated joints, cracked this, broken that, ruptured this, bruised that- he was used to it. He used his body, pushed it to the limit every night he stepped on stage, but this hurt was both similar and different.

Here, he didn't have a handy ice pack or bandage to help support his injuries. Good thing he was used to roughing it without medication or pain relievers.

His pint sized slave driver came to a halt before an elderly gentleman, and even though Punk was still outside the ring of polite conversation- or whatever the hell it was Sandow normally referred to as- he still felt responsible to speak up. "How's it going?"

The older man watched him with sharp blue eyes, both ringed with dark smudges denoting to the trauma he had sustained on impact. He also had a large gash on the side of head, but it appeared that someone had taken the time to bandage it with what looked to be part of a shirt. "Could be better, could be better." He returned cautiously before turning his attention to the little girl between them. "Anna, you were not supposed to wander off. Betsy asked us to stay together back at camp."

Camp? Punk also felt a sense of obligation to defend the little rebel before him. "She was getting me up before the waves carried me out to sea again."

Anna seemed just a keen to stay out of trouble, but apparently not with this Donnie. "He was sleeping. I didn't want him to fall asleep in the water."

Donnie seemed both relieved and tired. "That was very responsible of you. But now we need to head back before Betsy comes to find us missing and worries." Anna chirped her consent and turned back to him as if he were really her personal responsibility.

"Come on! We gotta get back." With that she skipped out ahead of them, stopping now and then to examine the contents of a bit of wreckage.

Punk watched her go, amazed at how untouched she was considering they had all washed up on a beach somewhere after crash landing in the Atlantic.

"She is something isn't she?" Donnie said, breaking the silence between them.

Punk couldn't dispute that. "She seems…unaffected."

The older man, Donnie, turned his piercing eyes back on him. "Youth has a remarkable talent for healing even the most grievous of wounds. That is why we need to keep her on the same stretch of beach, away from anything that might leave a lasting impression."

What did he say to that?

Donnie didn't wait for a response as he pushed slowly away from his slumped spot, limping badly as he used a thin metal pipe as a walking stick. "It was lucky she found you, instead of some of the others who didn't fair as well."

Oh…

"Are there any other survivors?" He didn't want to ask. He almost wanted to remain ignorant of the ugly truth.

"So far, just us and Betsy." Donnie wheezed as he pushed through the shifting sands. "She is combing the beach further up the coast to see if there are castaways like you; burying the ones who are already beyond our help."

Punk stopped at that last part. "Burying them?"

Donnie nodded. "Or what's left of them."

Mother fucking, shit. "Fuck!" He said out loud with passion.

"That's one way to describe it." The older man said as his limp became more and more severe.

Punk's emotions were all over the place with this bit of news- his friends! What happened to his friends? Zack, Dolph, Sandow, Daniel, Cody and Kaitlyn….they were supposed to be here too.

He didn't want to do this alone. Donnie's coughing punctured his spiraling thoughts, it was something else to focus on, and he could do something about this.

"Here." Punk said as he hobbled up alongside the ailing senior, and grasped one of his arms. Pulling it over his shoulder- he really had to stoop, which hurt, but what the hell ever. He'd live. Slipping his other hand around Donnie's back, together they followed after the dot of sunshine playing along the beach up ahead.

"Thank you." Donnie rasped in a frail voice. "I'm a little too old to be playing this game, I'm afraid."

"Nah, you'll be alright. Help should be along soon enough." Punk encouraged as they shuffled around what appeared to be a food cart.

Camp turned out to be a rather sheltered clearing just inside the tree line. A crag of rocks blocked the winds coming in off the ocean, and the thick palms above offered protection from the sun- which weren't really necessary at the moment considering the darkening bank of clouds over head kept them very well shaded. Several scraps of clothing had been laid out to dry as multiple bits of luggage had been pulled up and torn into. Various bottles and personal affects littered the area, some organized, other's not. A bit of rubber or plastic had been lain out over the sandy ground, creating a barrier that Donnie requested he be lowered onto. "Betsy was quick to set this up. By the time she found me up the beach, she had a ramshackle first aid station slapped together."

Anna stopped and stared. "I helped too! She told me to look for things. See!" Punk obediently turned his head to where she was pointing and discovered several cell phones propped up on a downed palm trunk, presumably to dry.

"We're hoping that one of them will work once they dry out." Donnie said in false cheer.

"Sometimes they do. I dropped my phone into a toilet once. It worked just fine after airing out." Punk shrugged, his spirits considerably lifted at seeing the modern bits of technology all lined up.

Donnie seemed unconvinced. "I hope so. Salt water can be unforgiving toward man made things."

Punk refused to be deflated. "One of them will work. Our chances are just as good." They had to be.

Anna bobbed her head. "Tha's what Betsy said too."

"Who is this Betsy anyway?" Punk finally asked. "She a stewardess?"

Anna shook her head. "No, she's a girl!"

Ah, well that cleared that mystery all up. "I see."

Donnie was staring at him again. More like scrutinizing. "I would have thought you knew her. What's your name anyhow?"

Why would he know her? "Just call me Punk, most everyone does."

His eye's narrowed. "Punk?" he said slowly.

He tried not to be so defensive. He didn't want to scare the kid, but he did get sick of explaining that name to people. He was Punk, what of it? "Yeah, gotta problem with that?"

Donnie was unmoved by Punks barely concealed aggression. "I know you from somewhere."

"The plane, perhaps?" He suggested sarcastically.

Shaking his head, "No, smart mouth, from before that."

Anna watched wide eyed as the two matched off, unsure what was going on exactly. The two stared each other down, Punk slowly tightening up, mostly out of habit whenever he was in a confrontation.

"He's a wrestler. One of the WWE's biggest superstars." A voice said from behind them, breaking the staring contest. "And quit being difficult, Punk."

Anna called a happy 'hello' as Punk whipped around, startled to see Lizzie B easing her way into their little circle. "It's you."

She looked bad. Her face was blotched with a thick patch of bruising along the entire right side. She moved like someone who was sporting multiple cracked ribs, and also seemed to be favoring one leg more than the other. One of her arms was also blackened, which she kept tight next to her stomach as she eased down onto the plastic sheet beside Donnie.

"Yeah, it's me." She said stiffly as she pulled a bag closer toward her and started digging around. She turned back to Donnie and said in a gentler voice. "Here, I forgot to give you these." She dropped a small plastic bottle into the older man's hand. "It's all I've been able to find thus far. It should help with the swelling at least."

"I'm sure it will be more than enough. Thank you, Betsy." She nodded before pushing the bag back, and turned her attention on Anna, who was practically vibrating.

"Well, Sunshine! What did you find?"

Anna was more than happy to show her. "Look, two more!" She said as stood next to the phones and gestured to a blackberry and iPhone.

"Oh, my goodness, Anna! Two?! That's the best news I've heard all day!" She praised, and Anna swelled with pride.

"Did I do well?" The little girl asked shamelessly.

And Betsy was only too pleased to lather on the compliments. "Very, very, well, my dear! But I have another extremely important job for you. One only you can do."

Enraptured, she gave the older woman her full attention. "What is it?"

Betsy leaned forward. "I need to you make sure Donnie takes two. Count them, one, two, of that Midol. No more, no less. He can be a bit difficult so you have to make sure he takes them. Can you do that?"

"Yes!" Anna said quickly.

Betsy looked unsure. "Are you positive? Donnie needs to take them. I can't leave this very important responsibility to just anybody."

"I can do it! I can do it!"

Donnie seemed more than amused by the child's enthusiasm. "I appreciate your intention's Anna, but I don't know if I want to take the pills."

"He needs to take two, Anna. Don't take no for an answer." Betsy said as she fought to stand up.

Anna took to the task with all the enthusiasm that a five year old could muster, and scooted up close to the old man. Meanwhile, Betsy turned her attention back on him. With a pointed look, and stiff wave, she signaled for him to follow her out of their camp onto the wind swept beach.

He trailed behind her for a long time until they were far enough away, and down wind, so as the two people back at camp couldn't see them any longer. Betsy seemed to have found what she was looking for, because she twisted back around and glared up at him. "You touch Donnie, or hurt either him or Anna, and I will personally see that you never work in the wrestling business, anywhere, ever again! Do I make myself absolutely fucking clear?!" She snarled so venomously that he actually leaned back, startled.

The commotion of the ocean waves were the only sound for a bloated pause before Punk managed to locate his voice. "I wasn't going to hurt him."

"You have a temper and practically little to no control over it! I won't have you traumatizing anyone we manage to find just because you are angry or bitter! Get over it, grow up, do whatever you have to do to not be a dick while we are stuck on this God forsaken beach!" She barked at him.

Now he felt himself getting angry. "Listen you little-"

She didn't wait for him to finish. She socked him hard in the jaw and he stumbled backward, catching his foot on a half-buried food tray, and tumbled into the sloshing surf.

Holy fucking shit! He grabbed his jaw as he sat stunned, staring back up at the scrap of a girl that just hit him. She was unmoved, tensed, and dark. "I am not screwing around." She growled. "I have had _hell_ to deal with for the last twenty-four hours-"

"So have we all!" He snapped.

"YOU have _not_ had to bury coworkers! YOU have _NOT_ HAD TO _BURY CHILDREN_!" She shrieked, eye's wild as she pulled at her hair.

He shut his mouth, unable to say anything to her pronouncement. His voice was lodged somewhere in his constricted throat. Bury coworkers? It was too horrible to even contemplate. The silence, and her outburst seemed to have sucked what strength she had been running on, and she sank to her knees. He watched as she crumbled before him, face contorted in agony as she rubbed at her eyes. "I can't find the others. I can't find Dolph or Zack. Sandow and I had tried to hold onto each other, but the seas were too rough. I never saw what became of Cody, or Kaitlyn…or Daniel."

Tears were leaking down her damaged cheek, and she lifted scared green eyes and looked right at him.  
"I'm so happy you're here right now." She confessed softly.

Punk felt sick as he listened to her pour her heart out. His friends were just as important to her as they were him. He felt a grudging respect grow as he witnessed her struggle to remain composed over the speculated fate of the others. A lot of corporate desk jockeys barely gave a crap about the talent personally, and they never were afraid to show or demonstrate it when they fired a wrestler, or a whole slew of wrestlers over some of the stupidest shit. As a WWE coordinator, this Betsy was responsible for any number of things. The fact that she was flying alongside the talent meant she was a rather low ranking member of corporate who had been regulated to 'babysitting'.

Funny how the closer an employee of the WWE got to the face of company, the wrestlers, the lower they were on the totem pole.

Betsy sniffled miserably, and that shook him from his rather revealing epiphany. Sitting up slowly, because that fall sure as _fuck_ didn't help his injured ribs, Punk stuck a hand out. "I don't think we really had the pleasure of meeting before now. I am Phillip Brooks, better known to the world as CM PUNK."

She only hesitated for a second before slipping her blackened hand into his. "Eilzabeth Tierney, also known as Betsy, Lizzie B, Red, or 'that corporate ring rat', depending on who is asking."

He gently curled his fingers around her ruined hand, careful not to squeeze. Up close, he could see that her arm was seared, blackened and blistered from fire, and probably was hurting like a bitch. "It's a pleasure. Shame it couldn't have been under happier circumstances."

Her smile wobbled as she dropped her gaze to their hands. "It seems Sandow's etiquette lessons weren't just a waste of his time."

Punk snorted. "I know how to be polite. I just normally skip it."

She squeezed his hand once more before letting go. "Your reputation precedes you. And I must say, it's entirely accurate."

"People don't know shit." He said quietly, looking out over the white caps.

She hummed in agreement, before shifting her focus. "How's your head?"

He seemed confused. "Uh, it's okay."

"I mean that cut on your forehead. It needs attention."

He waved her off. "It's fine."

She just sighed. "Normally I'd agree with you. But the tropics are a breeding ground for disease. If you get sick, it'll be near impossible to cure you without medication. We don't have it, and if we aren't rescued soon, it won't matter in the long run, but I don't want to push drugs on you if we can avoid it."

He felt his brow rise on its own volition. "Oddly considerate for a pencil pusher."

Shaking her head, she stood up with some difficulty. "Kindness isn't as rare as you think." She held her other hand out to him, which he took, and she helped lug him to his feet. Granted they both groaned and held their ribs in obvious pain over the effort.

"I think my ribs are cracked." She said in pinched voice.

"Broken. They are broken." He corrected as they turned to move back down the beach.

She moaned. "How do you know?"

"Because I recognize how you move and hold yourself. I've broken mine enough to know."

"Well that explains a lot."

As they trundled slowly down the beach, Punk felt anxious about what would happen to them. If help would come and if his friends somehow made it. He knew that both Donnie and Betsy desperately needed medical attention, and that he could use a once over himself. He was hurting- and he just stepped on a Goddamn shell in his socked foot. "FUCK ME!" He bellowed so loud a small flock of frigate birds took flight.

Could this situation be any more of a pain in the ass?


End file.
